Casimir Pulaski Day
by sister socrates
Summary: Songfic, AU. Madeline is dying of cancer. Alfred can't stop remembering. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, and sometimes we don't understand it, but He never gives us more than we can handle.


**A/N: **_despite the title, this is no poland-centric fic. for those who don't know, casimir pulaski was a polish general, and lots of places have holidays commemorating how cool he is. illinois celebrates casimir pulaski day on the first monday of march, i believe, hence the title. i could get into it and explain more, but i'm lazy._

_this was written in my chemistry class because learning is for the weak. italicized words are lyrics, for the most part. this has a much more normal format than usual. and of course, i don't own _hetalia_ or _casimir pulaski day, _they belong to himaruya and sufjan stevens respectively. please go listen to this song, it's beautiful._

**warning: **character death! cancer! cheesiness! genderswap! oh boy!

* * *

_goldenrod and the 4H stone  
__the things I brought you when I found out  
__you had cancer of the bone  
__your father cried on the telephone  
__and he drove his car into the navy yard  
__just to prove that he was sorry_

Madeline was dying. There was no question about it, the doctors had said. The figures just didn't work out, and none of it made sense. She had been doing so well. She was going to make it. Madeline was a fighter. She had been beating the cancer out. But her body couldn't give any more. She would die within the week, easily.

Alfred didn't know. He was beyond proud of his girl, he was so sure she would pull through. She had to. She couldn't leave them yet, not now.

Her father had called in tears when they'd gotten the news. Francis had gone out driving. Somewhere, anywhere, it didn't really matter. He just had to think, had to come to terms with the fact that his little girl was losing her grip on this world. He didn't want to talk, didn't want to acknowledge it. But his would-be son-in-law deserved to know.

Things weren't going to be okay.

Alfred went out and bought her flowers.

_in the morning, through the window shade  
__with the light pressed up against your shoulder blade  
__i could see what you were reading  
__all the glory that the Lord has made  
__and the complications you could do without  
__when I kissed you on the mouth_

Francis read her books, sometimes. It kept them both distracted. Her days were numbered, but they were resigned to it. It was just as comforting to listen to her father's voice as it was to spend the time worrying, saying tearful goodbyes. And was so much less tiring, less painful.

Alfred was there, too, but he hardly listened. He watched her. She was small, frail. But she was just as beautiful as when they'd met, even in the shadow of the valley of death.

He felt as though they'd known each other for aeons, like they were meant to be together somehow, be it as friends or lovers. She told him her secrets. They were okay. And then he'd kissed her one night in the park, all awkward teenage confidence, and she had pushed him away. Not because she didn't want it, but because she was afraid it would complicate things. It would destroy the friendship they'd cultivated together. And, it could be said, that it had. But that kiss had given both Alfred and Madeline so much more.

_tuesday night at the bible study  
__we raise our hands and pray over your body  
__but nothing ever happens  
__I remember at michael's house,  
__in the living room, when you kissed my neck  
__and I almost touched your blouse_

Alfred wasn't religious, but Madeline was. Her friends were, too. He had listened to them whisper their scriptures and say their prayers in the waiting room since she'd been hospitalized. He scorned them at first, insisting that speaking to the walls didn't help a girl recover from cancer. Now, though, he was willing to try it. To pray to Madeline's God. To talk to her friends, beg them to please use their spirituality to make her better. Anything. If their God could keep his girl alive, he'd take back everything he'd said. But the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, and he had a feeling they'd just feed him bullshit like always. She's going onto a better place, God's reclaiming one of his flock, he's going to end her suffering. Everything is going to be okay.

But what about Alfred, what about Francis? How could He take away someone who was so perfect, who meant to so much?

As the week passed at an achingly slow pace, and they waited on bated breath, memories came and went. He remembered a party, though whose it was wasn't clear any more. It was just a blur of stained brown carpet in somebody's basement, and an overstuffed couch, and the sheer unholiness in the way that she kissed. He remembered the funny, guilty feeling at just the thought of touching her. And all that remembering was enough to make Alfred cry.

_in the morning at the top of the stairs  
__when your father found out what we did that night  
__and you told me you were scared  
__all the glory when you ran outside  
__with your shirt tucked in and your shoes untied  
__and you told me not to follow you_

He remembered their first time, sneaking into her house after Francis had left on a business trip. He remembered the awkwardness, that teenage cockiness replaced by fear and adrenaline and embarrassment. He remembered how it felt to be inside of her, the beauty of that moment, and he remembered Madeline sleeping on his chest when her father returned the following morning. That sinking fear when Alfred realized they would be caught, that he would _only_ get castrated if he was lucky.

There had been yelling at the initial shock of it, because he couldn't get out of the house fast enough.

He remembered her anger at him, for some stupid thing he'd done, and she'd told him to just go. To not follow her. To stay where he was, that she just didn't want to look at him right now. But Alfred swore he'd follow her anywhere._But I can't follow you now, baby._

_sunday night when I cleaned the house  
__I found the card where you wrote it out  
__with the pictures of your mother  
__on the floor of the great divide  
__with my shirt tucked in and my shoes untied  
__I am crying in the bathroom_

They had been living together before Madeline was put in the hospital. They were going to get married, just a little court house affair, but had continued putting it off. He wished they hadn't.

Her condition had worsened, she was likely to die by the morning. Alfred hadn't wanted to leave the hospital, but he hadn't slept for days, and they insisted he go home and take a breather. Francis was to call if anything happened, bad or good. Resting was futile, though, and he couldn't stop remembering. There was just _too much _to think about, in the apartment its self. Family pictures. Madeline's clothes.

He sat in the bathroom and cried all night.

_in the morning when you finally go  
__and the nurse runs in with her head hung low  
__and the cardinal hits the window  
__in the morning in the winter shade  
__on the first of march, on the holiday  
__I thought I saw you breathing_

Madeline held out until the morning. Alfred was there, he'd come in as early as they would let him. Both he and Francis wept unashamed, and the nurse, embarrassed for them, could only whisper an, _I'm sorry, she's gone, we've lost her. _Madeline was dead, and it suddenly felt cold in the world, empty. It wasn't just the weather.

Perfection had been snatched out from under their noses, and Alfred would never stop remembering.

_all the glory that the Lord has made  
__and the complications when I see His face  
__in the morning in the window  
__all the glory when He took our place  
__but He grabbed my shoulders and He shook my face  
__and he takes and he takes and he takes._


End file.
